


these lives half in parallel

by radialarch



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M, Miscommunication, Missing Scene, episode 12, victor cries while they fuck: the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-28 02:04:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10065251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radialarch/pseuds/radialarch
Summary: There are things Yuuri thinks he can't have.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pearl_o](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearl_o/gifts).



> Much thanks to idrilka for looking this over, and to the animators of _Yuri on Ice_ for the loving way they rendered Victor's tears in the first minute of ep 12.

_How can you tell me to return to the ice while saying you're retiring?_

 

Victor is beautiful when he cries.

Yuuri is thinking about that when Victor rises up from the window seat and throws himself, clumsily, forward. He ends up half-sprawled on the bed, in a tangle of robes, and Yuuri pressed underneath him.

Yuuri goes, because it’s what he does: Victor pushes, and Yuuri follows.

Victor’s face is buried in the space between Yuuri’s neck and shoulder. “You never understand what I want,” come the words, muffled. Yuuri can feel Victor’s eyelashes, wet, against the skin beneath his jaw.

“I —” Yuuri says. “Victor.” His hands are lying uselessly by his side. He brings one of them up, trying to think of something to do, and ends up cradling the back of Victor’s head.

Under the touch, Victor goes very still. Then he shifts. Just a fraction; just enough to press a wet mouth to Yuuri’s throat.

 _Oh_ , Yuuri thinks. _So that’s what he wants._

Yuuri’s imagined this, once. He’s imagined it more often than he can count. He’s touched himself thinking about the clean sweep of Victor’s arms, and come with the imagined curve of Victor’s muscles under his mouth. He’s thought about the way Victor might fold gracefully against the shape of someone else, a thousand nights over, and felt it light something up inside him every time.

He never thought it might be like this: Victor slowly mouthing at the line of his clavicle, while the fabric of his collar grows damp.

But then, nothing with Victor has been what he expected.

“Will you —” Victor says, raising his head up, “let me —” His mouth is open; there are still tears clinging to his eyelashes.

Yuuri takes his head in his hands and kisses him.

It’s quick. Yuuri lets his hands fall a moment later, faintly surprised at himself. “Do you —” he says. “I, Victor, please —”

He falls silent when Victor presses the tips of his fingers to Yuuri's mouth. “Let's not talk,” Victor says, desperate, his voice catching on his vowels. “Let's just —”

This time, when Victor kisses Yuuri, it’s not quick at all. 

Victor’s gripping Yuuri’s shoulders, hard enough that he feels it beneath the layers of clothing. His mouth is parted; when Yuuri licks tentatively across his bottom lip, Victor makes a noise low in his throat and presses forward, blindly. Yuuri feels the faintest scrape of teeth against his mouth before it’s replaced with heat.

Victor’s eyes are closed. Yuuri’s are not.

Yuuri could pretend, if he shut his eyes, that this is just one more fantasy in a long line of them. If he’s never had Victor, then he can’t miss him when he leaves. When Victor goes back to the ice where he belongs, where he’s always been at his most brilliant, with Yuuri a mere footnote in his history.

He’s not going to pretend. Yuuri’s had eight months he could only have dared to imagine in his wildest dreams, when Victor tumbled into his life with all the vulnerable, human parts of him cracked open. It had been a gift, and he wants to deserve it — to hold onto it forever.

So he keeps his eyes wide, and tries to remember this, too.

Victor is a warm, heavy weight on top of him. Once, Yuuri had thought him beautiful like a statue. He hadn’t known then how much better the reality of him would be.

When Victor draws back to take a ragged breath, Yuuri brings a hand up, presses it to the place where the edge of Victor’s robe dips down into a V. 

“Can I touch you,” he asks. There’s warmth against the pad of his index finger, where it’s just brushing Victor’s skin, but he wants so much more: whatever Victor is willing to give, everything.

Victor looks down and considers Yuuri’s palm, flat against his chest. Then he sits up and tugs, sharply, at the end of the sash that holds his robe closed. 

The knot comes undone with a whisper. The robe spills over his torso, and beneath, there’s Victor: trembling slightly, slashed open from his throat all the way down to his thighs.

“Okay,” Victor says, and swallows. “Touch me.”

 _Show me_ , Victor has been saying ever since he came to Hasetsu. _Don’t tell me, Yuuri,_ show _me what you can do_. Insistent, relentless, until Yuuri had run out of words and launched into motion in sheer self-defense, and discovered exactly what he could do after all.

He can do this, too.

It’s not like he’s never touched Victor before; but this is something else altogether. When he skims a finger down Victor’s sternum, the tight line of his stomach, the look on Victor’s face reminds Yuuri, viscerally, of the sensation of tending to a wound. Of pressing against the tender edge of skin that’s split open, and feeling the deep ache echo underneath.

He moves, then, because that’s not the way he wants Victor to remember this. It’s easy to slide his hands up and fit his palms against the warm, smooth curve of Victor’s arms, and when Yuuri turns, Victor goes willing, laying himself down in the center of the bed with the robe slipped free from his shoulders.

“For so long,” Yuuri confesses, “all I wanted was for you to look at me. So please, will you — look at me, Victor. Keep looking at me.” 

Victor’s eyes are open now, round and dark. “Until the end,” he says. “That’s a promise.”

So Yuuri touches him: the fluttering hollow of his throat, down the sweep of his forearms with their fine dusting of hair. He presses his hands to the bell of Victor’s ribcage, imagining the shape of his heart beating in between — the heart that had carried Victor here, to him, and will keep on steady, long afterwards.

He dips his head down to take one of Victor’s nipples between his teeth, briefly, follows it with a long lick as he moves down, to press his mouth to Victor’s abdomen and feel the way the muscles tense minutely under his lips.

Yuuri’s hard. He’s been hard since Victor said _touch me_ , gave himself up like he was a gift for Yuuri to unwrap and keep. He climbs up to kiss Victor’s mouth again, shifting his hips to press up to the line of Victor’s thigh, and the small noise Victor makes low in his throat is almost as good as the long, slow drag of fabric against him.

Neither is as good as the sound Victor makes half a second later, when Yuuri slides a hand from the jut of Victor’s hipbone down, down, skimming against the length of Victor’s cock and onward, to come to rest on the inside of his thigh.

Victor’s kept his promise; he’s looking at him still. “Will you be happy?” he asks, very soft. “You won’t want more?”

 _No_ , Yuuri thinks. Because he’s selfish, and he’ll always want more. The intersection of their lives will end, as Yuuri crosses that line that marks the end of a competitive career and Victor remains radiant under the light of the rink — but the hunger inside Yuuri will stay. 

“It’ll be okay,” Yuuri says, which is a lie that will have to be the truth. Maybe it could be, if Victor could remember him fondly; keep this one memory when he was looking at no one but Yuuri.

Victor shakes his head when Yuuri goes to wrap his hand around Victor’s cock. “You, too,” he insists, a finger crooked in the elastic of Yuuri’s sweats.

So that’s how it happens: Yuuri’s sweatpants and boxers pushed halfway down his thighs, his erection a hot line against Victor’s, while he strokes them both and Victor looks at him, doesn’t take his eyes off of him until the very end.

Victor comes first, and his eyes are wet when he does. And Yuuri —

Yuuri stretches up, kisses the damp curve of Victor’s eyelids, and that’s what sends him over the edge.

Victor stirs first, reaching for a towel while exhaustion hits Yuuri at last. “Tomorrow,” he forces out, because it’s important. “Victor, after the free skate —”

“Don’t,” Victor says. He reaches out to touch Yuuri’s face; pulls himself back. “Let’s decide what to do tomorrow. Not today.”

Yuuri doesn’t know if it’s kind or cruel, to delay the inevitable, but he’s weak enough to want it. “Okay,” he says. He changes his clothes. After, when Victor has settled into the other bed, he stares up into the dark and finally, uneasily drifts off into sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> The immense amount of thought behind this fic went thus:  
> > Victor is so pretty when he cries (exhibits [a](http://radialarch.tumblr.com/post/155243594471), [b](http://radialarch.tumblr.com/post/156456273864), [c](http://radialarch.tumblr.com/post/155573488258), [d](http://radialarch.tumblr.com/post/155454339800); [bonus](http://radialarch.tumblr.com/post/155113214587))  
> > he and Yuuri should fuck while he cries
> 
> Please feel free to join Pearl & me in our quest to Make Victor Nikiforov Cry During Sex 2k17!


End file.
